


Illusive Loyalty

by Leonia42



Series: A Violet in a Snowstorm [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Drama, F/M, Heavensward, Holy See of Ishgard, Mystery, Politics, Romance, Stormblood, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 05:44:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13944126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leonia42/pseuds/Leonia42
Summary: If it's not smugglers, whispering conspirators, the Inquisition vying for influence, or a number of other local threats to contend with, there is still plenty of diplomatic work that requires Aymeric's attention, so much so that he hardly has the time or the energy to contemplate what is swirling deep within his own heart. And yet, thoughts pertaining to the Warrior of Light rarely stray from the forefront of his mind. When it feels like the world won't slow down for a single moment, he finds himself at his most isolated and in need of her assistance.[This story takes place during 4.1, is a direct companion to "Uninvited Guests"]





	Illusive Loyalty

The Vault’s inner chamber emptied out as the members of the House of Lords dispersed to their respective offices or lavish homes for the evening. Though many of the upper clergy’s administrative rooms had been converted for the new government’s use, not everyone had a serviceable office on sight. Those who did not found it a convenient excuse to cover up their lack of diligence. But not Ser Aymeric de Borel, who had politely declined the offer to reclaim the Archbishop’s former lair as his own; he was more than content to continue his tireless crusade from the Congregation, sometimes to the chagrin of his officers.

He stepped down from the elevated Speaker’s chair with moderate relief, reminding himself that it was not the throne which his predecessors had craved. Initially, he had been hesitant about the role but contrary to the title’s description, he was the one who had to speak the least during the long, quarrelsome sessions. Better to have someone not representing the interests of the High Houses than not.

Battles on the floor were not won by drawing blood, if they were won at all. While some of his colleagues had been blessed with silver tongues, most were covered in ruthless barbs. He was not a general in the field, merely a quiet observer, stepping in to mediate between bloodthirsty nobles who had not acclimated to life after the war.

There was no hurry to return to his desk, he could decipher the scrolls of notes later. If he waited long enough for the foyer to clear, he might even get away unnoticed, he could hardly afford to add more work to his crunched schedule.

In an effort to bide time, he tried to think of more uplifting thoughts: the dinner night at House Fortemps with the Warrior of Light herself wrapped affectionately around him throughout the entire evening, not exactly the romantic night he had hoped for but not entirely without its highlights either.

\---

He found her sitting alone by the fireplace, enjoying a lull away from the small talk over the dinner table. She could tell a story with poise and grace but listening to others go on about subjects she wasn’t as familiar with made her bored and restless. Honoriot pressed something piping hot into her waiting hands before returning to his other duties elsewhere.

“Had too much to drink already?” he said gently, indicating the mug of hot chocolate Venice was favouring.

“Aye, trying not to reach that point. It has recently occurred to me that my palette and my tolerance are often at odds with each other, especially when it comes to this city’s extravagant selection. I’ve been thinking about adopting your rule, don’t want to go back to old habits,” she looked up from the lounge, an expression he wasn’t familiar with briefly played out. What old habits? He’d have to find a delicate way to ask some other time.

“Fair enough,” he tried to put her back at ease again.

He sat down next to her, admiring how slim her dress appeared around her. It was the most feminine thing she had ever worn. The fur around the edges accentuated her curves, balancing out the dark cashmere fabric. The colours were a safe black and white, allowing her purple hair and dark blue eyeliner to pop just that much more than they would have normally. He had already complimented her many times but he knew she was not entirely comfortable with the attention.

“What do you think those two are talking about?” Venice nodded over at Lucia and Artoirel who were still sitting at the dining table, engrossed in one another’s company.

She moved over to smooth out the bunches in the front of her dress, revealing her luscious long legs as she repositioned. Showing off a bit of ankle would have been enough to set most hearts aflutter within the Holy See. The slit of her dress had no regard for such traditional boundaries as it went all the way up to the middle of her thigh. Said thighs were covered in skin-coloured stockings. How absolutely scandalous and considerably impractical in the cold climes of Ishgard. Perhaps she wasn’t so uncomfortable after all.

“I’m not certain but he’s probably about to ask her to dance,” he guessed. The selection playing from the orchestrion in the corner had comprised mostly of waltzes, a not-so subtle excuse to get close to one’s partner. He would not have resorted to such tactics but it wasn’t his dinner party.

“Does she know how?” she looked sceptical.

“Yes, I’ve taught her,” he assured her. She gave him a curious glance, what was that mean to be? Jealousy? Surprise? “Ballroom dancing is a very useful skill to have. You wouldn’t want to trip over your own feet in combat.”

“I can see that being useful,” she pondered his explanation, the look was still there. He reached out to touch her hand, to let her know that he wasn’t trying to imply that his second-in-command was anything more than a friend. She continued, “Now that I am starting to favour my paladin soulstone, I can appreciate the need for fanciful footwork. I’ve always meant to get around to it, to put that shield that Artoirel gave me to good use but didn’t really have the time to commit to learning something new. But now I have people that I care about, that I want to protect. I think it is a good fit after white mage. However, fighting with all that extra weight does not come naturally to me.”

“I’m sure we could practice together sometime though I suspect our techniques vary greatly from how you’ve been trained. To be honest, I’m not sure if I’d be very good at teaching, that was always something Haurchefant excelled at, he could get the best out of anyone.”

“You do that too, without even realising it. Your style is just a bit different, that’s all,” She placed her hand above his, the fingertips lightly brushing against his skin before settling down. How natural those small touches were starting to become between them.

“Does it look like they are getting up any time soon?” he asked rather suggestively, wondering if there was a small window of opportunity to kiss her. It would have been quite rude to do so while their companions were still figuring out if they even liked one another.

“Not really. Oh, this is a lovely song. Shall we?” She gently squeezed his hand, uncrossed her legs then stood up effortlessly in her high heels, looking rather dignified as she did so. He followed her lead, a wondrous sensation in its own right.

It quickly became apparent that Venice did not know how to dance, at least not to classical musical. However, that did not stop her from trying. He tried in vain to get their hands in the right positions as her legs kept wandering wherever they willed. Eventually, he placed a firm palm against her inner thigh, just above the knee. That got her attention, she looked down at him with genuine surprise, a hint of desire flashed through her eyes.

“Work with me, not against me,” he begged, not removing the hand until she nodded in agreement.

The lingering sensation of her stockings against his skin gave him pause, he would like to have done more if they were alone. He tried to push the compulsion of wanderlust away. She remained more compliant to his movements from that point on, allowing him to explore in a more restrained fashion. His focus was on the half-smile which she afforded him as he whirled her about, though his hands ever itched to follow the full curvature of her waist.

“Venice, I…” He wanted to confess the rude thoughts which kept slipping through him like water through a siv, he did not feel it was right to keep them to himself nor was he certain she would approve of them.

The church's warnings against the insidious nature of lust and temptation were so far beyond his grasp. Instead, his hands were full of the Warrior of Light’s writhing, muscular torso, her hands clasped together against the small of his upper back. Every time his arms moved, they pushed against hers and it felt as if her chest could not be any closer to his own.

“Sh, I want to feel the music for a moment,” she touched his lips gently with a forefinger, her other hand ramping a pattern of some kind against his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he couldn’t help but ask, the pattern continued.

“I think I could play this. Not on the violin, a harp maybe. Yeah, it wouldn’t be too hard,” she began to hum softly along with the newest song that had come on, her fingers keeping the same rhythm as she memorised the notes.

“You can play music?”

“Aye, I used to be in a band in Garlemald. A long, long time ago,” she sounded weary by the mentioning of her past. To emphasise how little she wanted to talk about it, she lay her head against his chest. They remained relatively stationary, rocking slowly back and forth without going anywhere.

“You continue to surprise and impress.”

“That’s what I do.”

“What other instruments are you acquainted with?”

“Strings are my specialty, my fingers have always been quite nimble. Was never very good with woodwinds though I’ve been told I can blow a horn quite well,” she laughed softly, moving one hand close to where her head rested, he thought she might have been trying to gauge his rapidly accelerating heartbeat. By doing so, she only encouraged it to speed up that much more.

Time stood still, her other hand dropped from his in favour of cradling his shoulder, drawing him further in. He found her scent to be intoxicating: a subtle blend of olives and dates with a pinch of pomegranate, underlined by the smokiness that came with a freshly lit campfire, not an uncommon smell for an adventurer but combined with the rest he couldn’t quite get enough. She urged him to hold onto the small of her back while she leaned in, her fingertips lightly brushing the back of his neck as she made her move.

Though they had both been angling for it, they hadn’t quite indulged one another with a proper kiss prior to that evening. Despite the occasion when they had consumed far too much wine, riling one another up with lustful tales free of inhibitions, they had not actually fallen through with their plans. Rather, they had wandered to his bed and nearly fallen asleep right then and there without so much as a caress.

While he had enjoyed the sudden intimacy, it hadn’t quite gone as far as he would have liked. He was struggling to find the most adequate words to express himself, a problem that did not seem to affect him anywhere else in his daily political life, the idea of using touch to get the message across was wholly attractive. The mood was just as it ought to have been, he couldn’t have had planned it better.

The sound of shattered glass startled them both; the closer they got, the more likely fate was to intervene, just as the House Fortemps guard had done so many moons ago.

“Are they arguing?” he asked in disbelief, the raised voices from the adjoining room were unmistakable.

“I think she’s leaving. I’ll talk to her, you deal with Artoirel,” Venice decided all too quickly, pulling away before he could say anything else.

“What happened?” he asked a remarkably pale Artoirel who had joined him in the lounge room. The other man was distraught, practically shaking with anxiety.

“I don’t know, I asked her to dance but she refused. So I asked if she wanted to go somewhere more private and I could play the violin, thinking maybe she was feeling overcrowded. I think she thought it was a euphemism and stormed off in disgust, knocking the glass over by accident as she went. I didn’t mean to upset her, she got so quiet and withdrawn before she exploded in anger. What have I _done_?” Artoirel was genuinely remorseful.

“I offered to walk her home but she wanted to be left alone,” Venice said as she rejoined the pair of them. She didn’t seem as concerned as Artoirel did.

“What else did you do? Did you touch her too suddenly?”

“I might have touched her arm,” Artoirel offered thoughtfully, then amended, ”In a nice way!”

“Lucia has deep trust issues, it might have been enough.”

“She used to be a spy after all.”

“This has all gone horribly wrong.”

“And it's about to get worse, Emmanellain looks like he’s seen better days,” Aymeric indicated the newest arrival. A completely disheveled Emmanellain made his entrance, holding a bloodied handkerchief to his temple, trying desperately not to meet anyone’s gaze.

“Oh, _tonight_ was the dinner? I can’t catch a break can I?” Emmanellain said with utter disbelief.

“You look awful,” Artoirel chimed in.

“Thanks.”

“Have you been in a brawl, brother?”

“Something like that. Ran into the the Dzemael boys, they were gloating about taking advantage of some poor lowborn woman and I had already drank a lot so I wasn’t about to let them get away without bruising their precious egos.”

“Why were you out drinking?”

“Don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to bed,” he brushed the three of them off and stormed upstairs in a hurry.

“I’ll go check on him, he needs his head looked at properly,” Venice once again took off. Of all of them, she had the most experience at dressing wounds so it made sense. Nobody else was eager to deal with the grumpy lordling.

“What a mess. I’m glad father retired early tonight to miss all of this,” Artoirel sighed heavily while leaning against the lounge, sizing Aymeric up, “You seem to be doing quite well for yourself. It's about time the Fury blessed you. You do pretty much everything around here.”

“The Fury does not give me more weight than I can bear,” he responded stoically, taken slightly aback by the compliment.

“Still, I am glad to see you so happy for once. After everything you've been through, everything we’ve put you through.. You deserve better,” Artoirel looked up at him with admiration and a hint of something else, perhaps regret, his candour completely unexpected.

“As long as there is peace in Ishgard then I have achieved what I set out to do.”

“We both know you won’t be content with that alone. What about peace for yourself?”

“All in due time.”

An awkward silence fell over the pair as neither could think of what else to say.

“Mayhaps we should check on them?” Artoirel suggested.

Venice was carefully closing the door to Emmanellain’s bedchambers by the time they arrived, she shushed them and urged them to move towards one of the smaller sitting rooms down the hall.

“Please don’t disturb him, he needs his rest,” she began, looking tired as she sat against the lounge.

“Was he.. sobbing?”

“What did you do to him?”

“I cleaned him up, thankfully it was only couple of cuts and bruises that won’t take overly long to mend. Tried braiding his hair a bit, mostly to keep it from brushing against the wound on his cheek but he seemed to appreciate the attention. Once that was done, I encouraged him to get everything off his chest without worry of any judgements. He was hesitant at first about speaking his mind but once the floodgates were open.. I just sort of cradled him and let him get it all out, you know?”

“You _mothered_ him?” Artoirel blinked a few times, trying to comprehend. “Venice, there hasn’t been a maternal figure in this household for many summers.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no. It’s just.. we are very grateful to have you in the family,” he sounded like he was choking back on emotion. Venice got up and gave him a gentle hug, Aymeric was completely caught off guard by her warmth, not because she didn’t show it often but because he had never seen Artoirel embrace such behaviour openly. Of the three Fortemps sons, he was usually the coldest, most distant.

“What spurned him on tonight?”

“I can’t speak much about it, I told him I wouldn’t,” she said quietly, returning to her spot on the lounge. “The long and short of it is that he and Ser Laniaitte met to have a final conversation about their prospects. I say final because they both agreed to call it off before anyone got hurt again. It would seem they both had feelings but could not find a way to make it work out.”

“Poor guy, he really does love her.”

“He’ll recover in time, for now I ask that everyone be a bit.. Gentle with him. I know that’s asking a lot but he needs support,” she looked over at Artoirel who nodded, recently feeling burned himself. “Love can be complicated, to say the least.”

“We should call it a night before we disturb Lord Edmont,” Aymeric suggested, lightly touching Venice’s shoulder. There was nothing else they could do to salvage the evening.

“Why didn’t he stay with us for dinner?” she asked.

“He’s had a furious headache as of late. He claims it is a head cold but I think it’s a case of writer’s block,” Artoirel said, grateful to have something else to think about. In an attempt to hide his emotions, he eventually excused himself so that they would not bear witness to his weaknesses.

“Venice, shall we turn in early? We can try to do this another time when everyone is in higher spirits,” he tried again, she was looking around the room lost in thought.

“I think I should stay here. My family needs me right now. My brothers are both heartbroken and my father needs his muse. He’s been trying to get my help on an afterward for his memoirs for awhile now so I may as well make an effort.”

“I understand.” He didn’t, not really. He had no siblings and his father had brought him nothing but despair. But he could see that it was important to her, the compassion and concern that she held for her adoptive family was incredibly moving. There in her native element, she showed that her trueself was much more of a lover than a fighter. It made her immensely more attractive to him, if only he could take her back to his to show her how much.

“I’m sorry tonight hasn’t gone as planned,” she wrapped him up in a tight hug. While he appreciated the physical closeness, there was still no parting kiss on offer.

“It’s alright, we did the best we could,” he said, keeping the disappointment in his gut at bay.  His heart heavy, he turned to leave with Honoroit hot on his heels, apologising profusely all the way to the foyer. There would be other chances in the future, of that he had no doubt.

\---

His carefully laid plans to return home without disruption were quickly waylaid by an ambush. Instinctively, his hand fell to his side where the sword hilt should have been but weapons were no longer permitted within the Vault except under special circumstances. Before him stood an angry Count de Fortemps, his hands on his hips, a sour expression fixed across his face.

“Why did you not lend me support, one more endorsement would have been enough,” Lord Artoirel demanded, foregoing the usual pleasantries.

“Maintaining impartiality is paramount to my role. The Speaker must act as a catalyst for further discussion without altering the outcome,” Aymeric explained delicately, for what felt like the upteenth time. The lords of Ishgard were still accustomed to the old ways of power, they struggled to comprehend why he had so little of it.

“But you dismissed it entirely!”

“Your arguments were not strong enough, if you lost the debate you would have suffered more damage than if you had not started it.”

“This is too important to get bogged down in technicalities.”

“I agree which is why we should proceed with caution, within the full realm of the law regardless of how slow it may be. If we cannot demonstrate that the laws work then all is for naught.”

“I expected so much from you,” the disappointment in his voice was unmissable.

“You must see the danger in pushing too hard, too fast?” he implored. “If the Inquisition feels threatened, they _will_ fight back. And not on the House floor.”

“We cannot allow fear to stay our hand, didn’t you say that once?”

“Lord Artoirel, next time it may be you or one of yours who lies in the street, broken, within a pool of their own blood, wondering what you could have done differently, begging the Fury to release you from this madness,” the words came out like a torrent, he nearly regretted making the drastic analogy but he knew not of a better way to make the point about the dangers the count was courting.

“Lord Aymeric, must you be so dramatic?” Artoirel’s expression exhibited many emotions at once: shock, pity, anger. Eventually, he settled into the classic look of highborn indignation.

“I will do what I must to protect the ones I love, even if it means protecting them from themselves,” Aymeric persisted, unabashed.

“I’m trying to help you!”

 _Try harder_ is what he would have liked to have said.

“We are no longer teenagers arguing over petty things, the decision we make now affect hundreds of lives.”

“Then let us give the people what they deserve rather than deliver our short-term ambitions.”

The conversation with Artoirel de Fortemps had left him reeling, he wasn’t so much angry with him as sorely disappointed by his lack of foresight. His grievances with the Inquisition were well known and he was hardly the only head of a family to be targeted by the outdated institution. But that was no excuse for blind fanaticism, it was little different then how other factions had tried to force their demands upon their peers.

Some saw the wiping of the slate clean as an opportunity to take power for themselves rather than as a chance to create lasting, positive change, not that he suspected that was the count’s aim but others would certainly see it that way. Was Aymeric the only one who could see the various strands in the new tapestry of the republic, was that why they kept heaping more obligations upon his shoulders?

He watched as the count sauntered off to a flock of individuals who were eager to be graced by his presence. Not long after, he saw Ser Lucia enter the foyer, she gave him a modest salute and continued on towards Artoirel’s growing entourage. He was surprised to see the pair of them engaged in conversation after their last encounter and yet there she was, laughing at his crowd-pleasing jokes like all the rest.

With the unwelcome confrontation over, he could fallback on his original plan. He could draft up more amenable plans to tackle the thorny issue of the Inquisition’s future from the silence within his study. Or he could get around to reading one of the many languishing tomes awaiting his attention in the same room.

He recalled the decadent leather cover of a book Venice had acquired in Kugane: a collection of Thavnairian ballads retelling the entirety of Eorzean mythology through an Eastern lens. What a beautiful way to spend a lonesome evening, curled up by the fireplace with a glass of red and a good read, he was very much looking forward to it.

Once more, his plans were dashed.

“Good evening, my lord,” a timid voice coming from a man in a fanciful hat addressed him.

“Lord Francel, what a pleasant surprise. It is always good to see you in the capital,” he greeted his old copatriot. Lord Francel de Haillenarte had been a close friend of Lord Haurchefant’s. Having taken his death harder than most, he had elected to spend his time away from his fellow noblemen in favour of keeping a quiet vigil near the garrison. His aloofness was often confused for snobbery but Aymeric knew better.

“It has been a long time coming. Most people were unaware that I was gone, shows what little impact I had around here,” the younger man went slightly flush, embarrassed by the sudden attention.

“On the contrary, we have sorely missed your soothing presence,” Aymeric said with the utmost honesty. “Or at least, _I_ have.”

“You’ve always known exactly what to say to people, if I were even a quarter the politician you are..” Francel trailed off and sighed. “I don’t think I’d have the stomach for it. Are they always so vicious in the chamber?”

“They were rather tame today but the mood can shift depending on the topics at hand.”

“Can I ask for your assistance with a matter I wish to present to the House soon?” he blurted out rather forthright. “I don’t have many friends here and neither of my siblings is adept at this sort of art.”

Normally that would be the point in the conversation that Aymeric would have to politely decline on account of his already laden schedule but Francel was sincere and the Fury knew when he’d be in the city again.

“Of course. What did you have in mind?”

“A war memorial to honour everyone, highborn and lowborn alike, that fought in the Dragonsong War, the entire thousand year legacy of it. Every single name inscribed for eternity, so that future generations may never forget,” Francel said, each word boosting his confidence a tiny bit more. It would make for a marvelous gesture and he knew it. Finding the financing was going to be the hard part, the republic was already stretched thin on numerous projects, not least of which were some that had yet to be started for which Aymeric had his own proposals to sort out.

“A brilliant idea. I would love to discuss it further at your earliest convenience,” he commended the lordling, clapping his hands together for emphasis. He almost wished it had been his own idea.

“Excellent, for now I must congratulate Lord Artoirel on his impassioned speech tonight. Mayhaps we can reconvene another time.”

He watched as Lord Francel drifted off to the throng of other noblemen then finally made his way towards the exit, too relieved to be upset about Artoirel’s growing support base.

\---

The gardens around the Hoplon were well-maintained if not a bit smaller than Aymeric remembered from his youth. When he was about twelve summers old, it had seemed like an unwieldy jungle, the perfect place for young children playing at soldiers to congregate amongst themselves. The guards would always shoo them away but that wouldn’t deter the more persistent among them. The orphans in particular were stubborn about giving up anything they deemed to be theirs.

It was one of the few spots that allowed for the mixing of social class, for children didn’t care about politics. Well, most didn’t. Those of the High Houses knew what was expected of them. Nonetheless, the boys of House Fortemps were often coerced into spending time with him, though they treated him no differently than the lowborn orphan they thought him to be, which was fine because explaining his family situation was the last thing he wanted to do.

Haurchefant was different, he always had been.

The boys often took to the game of knights versus dragons but in truth it usually turned into bastards versus lordlings. Back then, Aymeric was the smallest of the four of them which made it all that much more difficult to earn Emmanellain and Artoirel’s respect. They rarely played by the established rules and didn’t much care to be involved unless they had some sort of advantage. They all had their unique talents: Aymeric was clever, Haurchefant was brave, Emmanellain was aggressive, Artoirel was patient.

They had taken to recreating sword fights they had seen in various tournaments using makeshift wooden training swords that they had crafted themselves out of whatever they could find lying about. Each would modify their own equipment within reason. But one day the lordlings had favoured hard, metal versions leaving the other two at a gross disadvantage.

“You bloody cheats!” Haurchefant declared, his long blue hair falling in his face every time he swung his own sword.

“Now, now brother. You could have done the same but chose not to,” Emmanellain chided him, pretending to parry his advance. He fell behind his older brother who favoured the two-handed variant and waited for Haurchefant to make his move.

“Mayhaps if you spent more time around the forge instead of getting lost in the Brume, you would learn something of value,” Artoirel added.

“When father finds out where you’ve been lurking during your so-called study time, he will be quite displeased,” Haurchefant quipped.

Aymeric knew better than to interfere when the three of them were at each other so he kept quiet, watching their movements, trying to judge how well the lordlings could utilise their new toys. More weight meant slower swings, the counter-balances weren’t accounted for in their design. It would be easy to strike when their power was spent.

After awhile, they got bored of exchanging insults. Emmanellain eventually relented to trade his longsword with Haurchefant so that the two sides would remain as even as possible. Artoirel was too proud of his creation to give it up. They continued with their mock-battles well past sunset.

Despite the gesture of good faith, Emmanellain was quick to grab the metal claymore off the ground once it had been knocked loose by a well-timed shield block from Haurchefant. Unable to control the bulky weapon’s momentum, Emmanellain tried to knock over Aymeric who was the most exposed at the time.

Haurchefant called out over his shield, “Look out!” but he needn’t have bothered.

Aymeric knew exactly what to do, using his short stature compared to his opponent to maximum effect. He dropped to his knees, the stones on the edge of the garden providing little comfort, the blade soared harmlessly overhead. It kept going until it got stuck against Artoirel’s unsuspecting arm, ruining the entire side of his tunic as the stitching was cut loose. He cried out with distress and it was anyone’s guess how he had not drawn the attention of the nearest guard.

“You bloody buffoon!” This is my writing hand,” Artoirel admonished his brother who had gone pale with fear.

Aymeric was tempted to make a crude joke about the pen being mightier than the sword but the panicked look on Haurchefant’s face was enough to belay the humorous remark.

“What do we do?” Emmanellain asked.

“We can’t take him home like that, I think he’s bleeding..”

“If I die, bury me with my sword.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, it’s barely a paper cut.”

“This is all Aymeric’s fault.”

“Like hells it is.”

“Well, you don’t want to blame him. If you do, father will know we’ve gone against his wishes.”

“Oh yeah..”

“I’ll take responsibility, say you swung at me,” Haurchefant decided pragmatically. It was easier for the truesons to swallow, he often got into trouble and they would be free of guilt.

“No! You can’t do that, I can own up to my own mistakes,” Aymeric protested, he wouldn’t have anyone lie on his behalf, least of all his only friend. But it did put the Fortemps boys in a bind, for Edmont had warned them multiple times to not play with someone as controversial as Aymeric. He barely allowed them to associate with any of the lowborn.

“Look, we really have to do something. He really is bleeding a lot,” Emmanellain pointed out.

“Take him to the infirmary. Say it was an accident, which it was, and try not to answer any more questions,” Aymeric suggested, he knew the knights at the barracks well enough, they would help a child in distress before worrying too much about how they had came to be in the unlucky situation.

“We’ll be late for dinner,” Artoirel whined.

“Should have thought about that earlier. Now let’s be away and hope Haurchefant can cover for our absence,” the younger brother said, carrying his wounded brother over his shoulder.

“Who do you think will be angrier: Lord Edmont or your mother?” Aymeric asked, more for calming Haurchefant down than his own curiosity.

“You don’t know how good you have it. No parents to judge your every action.”

“That may be but the barracks aren’t exactly cozy. Nobody notices me unless they can make use of me somehow. Your family cares about you, even if they don’t always show it.”

“Do you think we’ll ever be real knights?”

“Of course we will, though I don’t know whether we’ll serve together. You’ll be expected to serve your house but I have no house. Not yet.”

Before they could continue their conversation, there was a loud, bellowing noise echoing throughout the Pillars.

“Haurchefant!” Lord Edmont called, sounding like he was in a foul mood.

“You should go. Even if he doesn’t find out what has happened, he won’t be happy to see you,” Haurchefant warned his friend.

“You’re late for dinner again, what have I told you about playing out here in the streets?” Edmont was already upon them. “And what is _he_ doing here! Wherever he goes, trouble is not far behind. He will bring only ruin to Ishgard.”

“You can’t talk to him like that!” Haurchefant said loudly, standing between them so that he was physically shielding Aymeric from his father’s wrath. Edmont looked to argue then changed his mind. Haurchefant pressed on, wooden shield out, “Are we not all brothers and sisters of Ishgard?”

“Speaking of siblings, where are your brothers now?”

“They went to the Crozier to pick up some things for mother,” Haurchefant lied with a straight face. It must have hurt to refer to his step-mother in such an affectionate tone.

“Bless them. Come, your mother will be worried. And you should not disobey me again.”

“I bet she isn’t,” Haurchefant said under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing father,” he gave Aymeric an apologetic look then followed after him, probably trying to think of how to stall both parents over the dinner table.

Aymeric was left alone as he so often was, the burning hatred Edmont had for him was almost too much to bear. But there was Haurchefant, always ready to take the fall, to protect the weak, to serve as was a knight’s duty. The pair of them were often thrust against the rest of the world but at the end of the day, Haurchefant had a warm home to go to whereas he only had ambivalent knights to complain about him underfoot.

Some day things might change, with knights like Lord Haurchefant in charge; some day Ishgard would be a better place.

\---

He didn’t know when or how Lord Edmont had learned the truth, for he was certain that is why he gazed upon a young boy with fear and contempt in his eyes. Most did not care exactly who his father was, acknowledging that he was the product of sin was enough to dismiss him as insignificant. On the other hand, the count of one of the four High Houses saw him as a threat to the natural order of things, an aberration that would only bring destruction if given the opportunity.

The other nobles were merely pretending to know of his relation to Archbishop Thordan VII so that they could have something to base their cruel gossip upon. It made people feel better about themselves when they could put down somebody else, especially someone who could not possibly fight back. Their scornful stares and scathing judgement, the bleak outlooks for his future, had only served to drive him that much harder to prove his worth. The Fury had not forsaken him and he would not forsake Her.

Things had changed dramatically since then. Edmont’s attitudes had long evolved to support his progressive vision, seemingly forgetting his past transgressions. He could hardly fault him for changing his opinions, he was a complicated man who had lost both of the women he loved as well as a son that he should not have had himself. There was room for redemption, that had been the entire point of ending the war.

Aymeric turned his attention away from the garden and the bitter memories then caught the sound of hushed whispers from the level below.

Though the voices came from a pair of men on the lower level, he could not discern their precise location, he assumed they were meeting within the concealed shadows of one of the archways, trying their best not to be seen or heard. It was late but not late enough that foot traffic through the gardens would be out of the ordinary. He looked about for the nearest patrolling guard, the lack of which sent the hairs aback his neck on high alert.

Carefully, he leaned in as close as he dared from behind the foliage of one of the taller hedges, catching only snippets of the illicit transaction. An absent guard, Lucia not on duty as she should have been, rumours of bribery, thoughts to address when he could afford to do so. The sound of jingling coins shuffled between greedy hands, a low grumbled warning about keeping things quiet. One man walked away, an Elezen judging by his swaggering gait, clothing too dark and bulky to tell much else. He waited for the other to emerge but instead heard someone approaching his position from the same level, he would have spun around with sword out if it were with him.

A startled Lord Francel froze in place, “Is something amiss?”

“I’m not sure yet, keep your voice down..” before he could finish, he heard the twang of a loosened arrow, the distance of the draw too hard to gauge, his well-honed battle senses fully triggered. “Get down!” he moved toward Francel to shield him, propelled by instinct and adrenaline.

Between them, the arrow lodged with its full force into the wooden door of an unused garden shed, neither of them reacted at first, expecting another volley to follow the first. There was no follow-up attack. Nonetheless, he made certain that Francel’s body was safely behind his own while he tried to determine the arrow’s trajectory of origin. The surrounding buildings in that section of the Pillars were all tremendously tall, it could have been shot down from any one of them. The wind stirred, whoever the archer had been knew how to account for changing conditions, the height of the arrowhead could easily have been a fatal blow for either man.

“There’s something attached to the shaft,” Francel pointed, his voice meek, shaking with fright.

Aymeric reached up to pull the arrow loose. Indeed, a small scroll of parchment had been tied purposely to the nondescript shaft, there were no other indicators as to where the arrow had came from. All things considered, it was as generic as any arrow could possibly be in terms of shape and material.

He unrolled the parchment and silently read over its meager message: “Look the other way”, it said in large, blocky letters. Again he looked around to try and determine what vector the arrow had flown at but it was simply too dark to tell.

“I think it’s a warning, the danger has passed for now,” he said in the calmest voice he could manage for both their benefits. He was sure he had been the intended target, not that knowing that put him at any more ease. Someone else had been watching the transaction that he had witnessed and did not wish for interference, either they were in on it or they were a mysterious third party. Just what had he stumbled across? “Are you alright, Lord Francel?”

“Fine, fine. I was a bit late leaving, got caught up talking to one of the committees, what a mistake that turned out to be!”

“Let me escort you home from here, this does not bode well,” he tried helping Francel back to his feet, the other man nodded in appreciation.

“Perhaps you are free to go over my proposal tonight,” he offered with a half-hearted smile. “You should at least stay long enough to try one of Lani’s famous heaven lemon tarts, they are absolutely divine.”

On the way to Haillenarte Manor, they stopped so that Aymeric could speak with one of the guards beginning her rounds for the night.

“Are you familiar with the knight whose shift comes before yours?” he asked the helmeted Temple Knight. He tried to keep the arrow out of sight while making his enquiries.

“No, ser. Our rotation changes every night,” she said truthfully.

“You’ve not seen anything strange then?”

“No. Should I have?”

“There is an ominous wind blowing tonight. Please take note of anything that is out of place, even should it seem insignificant. I expect a thorough report when you are done. Remain vigilant, may the Fury keep you.”

The knight tilted her head with curiosity but said nothing more to her commander. They exchanged salutes then went their separate ways.

“Why didn’t you mention what happened?” Francel asked when they were out of earshot.

Aymeric shook his head, “It’s a very odd feeling that I cannot place, but I do not know who to trust. One of my knight’s failed to perform their duty tonight, how can I be sure we have not been compromised in some way?” He thought of Hilda’s suspicions that someone was leaking information.

He took up Francel’s offer if only to make sure that the lord would not speak of the night’s events until more information could be uncovered. For his part, the lord helped him ensure the integrity of the arrow by wrapping it in a piece of clean linen so that it could be carried free of blemishing any potential fingerprints or other revealing marks that might show up in a proper examination.

Just as he was beginning to think the worst was over, a house guard delivered some troubling news from the Crozier: apparently there had been a breaking-and-entering that went awry, leaving a shop owner dead.

His temper was beginning to flare, could nothing go right that night? Still bereft of his sword and armour, he grudgingly made his way to the scene.

“Ser Handeloup, what a relief to see you here,” he greeted his tired colleague who was in civilian dress.

“Aye, not how I intended to spend my night off.”

“Ser Lucia should be on duty by now, I saw her earlier but assumed you two had swapped times again,” he pondered the implications.

“I’m only here because my family home is a couple of streets over,” Handeloup pointed out, sounding annoyed that he had to protect his family in his off-hours as well.

“I’m sorry to burden you like this, Lucia should be the one overseeing this case. Could you catalogue everything so that we can go over it tomorrow when we’re both more awake?”

“I’ll see to it,” he nodded to the arrow that the lord commander still held close, “What’s that?”

“Evidence, I hope. Someone took a shot at me tonight.”

“What, again?” Handeloup laughed with grim humour, he had always enjoyed his ability to keep matters light.

“Sadly, I was not alone. I’ve kindly asked Lord Francel to remain silent on the matter until we can figure out what in the Seven Hells is going on,” he yawned involuntarily, anger and exhaustion threatening to overtake him.  All he wanted was to go home without anybody else being accosted, was that so much to ask for.

“This situation is under control, my lord,” Handeloup assured him. Music to his ears.

\---

He looked over the picture emerging against the bulletin board: multiple coloured threads linking a numerous amount of related intel, suspects, potential motives, assumed associations, known information, unknowns that needed filling in, a cornucopia of a mess. His larger plans for integrating Ishgard into the Alliance’s mainstay operations would have to be put on hold until his own house could be put back into order.

If they didn’t start wrapping up cases fast enough, it would not be long before the head inquisitor burst into his office, unceremoniously demanding his resignation. He could not allow local institutional rivalries to stymy the progress he had made nor could he continue to make headway in that direction with such an encroaching workload.

He drummed his fingers against the tabletop, hoping for a hit of inspiration to strike while various reports were read aloud, their respective notes added to the board. With such limited resources, he wished he could have bequeathed some of the tasks to the Inquisition, it would keep them occupied while allowing his knights to do what they did best. Perhaps there was merit in that. As long as the foreign cases were kept away from the heretic-seekers, they could be made to pull their weight for once.

Local affairs could be handled by Muscadain’s team, the lengthy cases could be handled by Venice, the rest would be divided amongst his officers. The most recent crop of recruits could be put to effective use right away while paired off with the Watch which could do with the experience themselves; slowly, all the pieces were coming together.

Nothing was insurmountable as long as he took his time to find meaningful solutions, there were no mad conspiracies or strange happenings to get worked up over, just more crime than usual, a direct consequence of joining the larger world. The last thought struck him as something the Inquisition had been saying since the end of the war, he did not mean to prove them right. If he could help it, he would avoid conflict with them altogether, he had no desire to step foot in the inquisition chamber ever again.

The war room drifted away as dark thoughts resurfaced, his last confrontation with the elite knights of the Heavens’ Ward, the symbols of hope that Ishgardian children held in the highest regard. Nothing but power-hungry zealots devoid of honour or reason, corruptors of the faith, murderers, tormentors. He would not forget the sadistic sneer that Ser Zephirin had shown that day, displaying his true colours all too late, nor could he forget the smell of charred flesh, the harrowing screams, the searing pain..

“My lord?” Ser Lucia gently called out to him, “Are you alright?”

“Honestly? This is all a bit overwhelming,” he said, acknowledging her with a fatigued nod.

“Aye, it is,” she agreed, looking back at the bulletin board, not a spare space left upon it. The room was empty save for the two of them. “But it’s nothing we can’t handle. There is nought else to do tonight, I can wrap things up here. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?”

For a moment, her green eyes shimmered like Venice’s, he tried to remember the last time that the two of them had had a friendly chat. She had been so distracted by other matters, as had he. She was still important to him even if their paths did not cross as often as they used to.

“Thank you, Lucia, I think that is exactly what I need now.”

\---

There were very few luxuries which Aymeric had spent his wealth upon, the claw-footed tub with the gradual reclining sides was one of them. As far as he was concerned, it was a vital necessity for maintaining his mental well-being; its relaxing properties utilised during periods of great stress, of which there were many, was a considerable bonus. Unlike other nobles, he did not require constant pampering, there weren’t enough bells in the day and he had not been brought up a world of privilege like most of his peers.

Rather than rely on others, he saw to most things on his own, finding the lengthy, menial ritual of preparing the water to be an inviting task that did not tax his concentration as everything else seemed to. He left the dull administrative tasks to his handful of servants, the sort of things that could be done in his absence. For that particular evening, he wanted to be free of all distractions. Foregoing the scented oils and soaps in favour of the scalding hot temperature, he settled in for a lengthy time alone with his thoughts, a plethora of topics each jostling for his focus.

He shifted his attention away from the long list of potential nefarious elements and tried to count off the allies he had accumulated, grimly realising that the current pickings were quite slim. Hilda’s clumsiness had struck at the worst time, Lucia was trying to love again after a tumultuous past, Handeloup had his own family to attend to, Artoirel was too focused on retribution to see the larger picture, Estinien had left Ishgard behind to deal with his own issues, Venice was doing whatever a Warrior of Light needed to do. Even Lord Edmont seemed too distracted with shoring up his legacy to lend him an ear.

For the first time in a long while, he realised that the people he had come to rely on had their own lives and problems to contend with. Whereas for him, safekeeping Ishgard _was_ his life. It was the choice he had made but he was beginning to wonder at what point was he in too deep, he couldn’t very well carry his duty out alone. Had he not told Venice not to push herself too hard?

A pang of guilt swept over him. When had he allowed himself to depend so strongly on one individual. To be fair, he had inherited more responsibility since she had come into his life, willingly or not, it was hardly her fault that he was struggling to cope. He could certainly make do without her but he no longer wanted to do things as he had once done before needing her help.

He leaned back and let the water soak further into his weary body, how everyone liked to point out how young and virile he was, as if that had any bearing on his ability to command. He didn’t feel particularly spritely, worried about mountains of paperwork, deadlines, meetings, controlling a spate of seemingly unconnected crimes across his jurisdiction, trying to remember what the agenda from the last Council session had been, and so forth.

He closed his eyes and tried to recall what it felt like to get a single night of decent rest, wondering what his mind may conjure up if he could truly pursue what he wished. What was it he had asked Venice over their first dinner: what did she want for herself? He knew exactly what his answer would have been had she been given the opportunity to throw it back to him.

He couldn’t think of anything else besides her wicked grin, the one she had flashed him after landing the final blow into Nidhogg’s scaley corpse. Sure she had been worried for Estinien, and by extension Alphinaud, but she knew the hard part was over. She had had a similar look about her in Ala Mhigo, minus the worry. While the stakes weren’t quite as personal then, she had appeared to be more relieved than triumphant.

When their eyes had met in the Menagerie, he could have sworn she wanted something from him. Perhaps she had wanted him to scoop her up and return her home so that she could wait out for the next crisis, she had not told him off for making the suggestion. That was no reason to presume anything, doing so would only succeed in getting his hopes up.

And his hopes were pathetically low that evening. His position often left him internally isolated but he was dealing with a new kind of ache: he was in love, that much was plain, and he missed her terribly, even if the feeling was not to be reciprocated. He didn’t need a Warrior of Light to swoop in and solve all his problems, he needed companionship.

_Venice, I need you here, it’s all falling apart without you._

 ---

The bored guard offered no resistance, nearly doubling over as he bowed and let him pass. Sometimes a show of rank was useful. The dark blue dress uniform adorned with numerous polished medals, the tell-tale blue rank sash, the confidence within his stride were enough to demonstrate his important status without him having to resort to stressing his quite strained voice, a result of the numerous speeches he had been forced to provide earlier in the day. He did not make a habit of throwing his weight around if he did not have to but he was blissfully grateful for a wordless confrontation.

On the other side of the steely, industrial door which still bore the interlocked symbol of the Garlean Empire at its top, he was by greeted by silence. He let out a quietly held breath, trying to let himself absorb the respite. Free of mundane conversations with everyone who desired to be seen in his elevating presence, he could finally hear his own thoughts again.

The sun was at the beginning of its descent towards the horizon, throwing long shadows behind the various trees which were dotted around the meticulous gardens. He barely recognised any of the desert-friendly foliage, there were no proud pines or firs, no brightly reaching birches, not a single plant worthy of being used in the construction of hardy siege weapons.

Ala Mhigo was full of dust, bleak browns, spindly trees with small leaves, more flowers in the red spectrum rather than the blue, and very little animal life beyond the nuisance of wasps and mites. But despite its strangeness, it was a recently freed nation, it’s poor people currently celebrating their deliverance from oppression, a victory his own nation had recently revelled in itself.

He took great relief in placing the celebrants behind him, a warm wind encouraged him away from the entry way, the balmy temperature making him glad for the lack of his usual armour and woolen cloak. Slowly, he made his way towards what he envisioned had been the location of the former ruler’s timely demise. In hindsight, he wished he had been present for the final confrontation, not only to be assured of the Warrior of Light’s safety but also so that he would know the final fate of the Eyes which had held the responsibility of igniting the entire conflict.

The Eyes of Nidhogg had caused enough damage in his lifetime, the duty of ensuring they no longer continued to do so fell to the Azure Dragoon, which at the time was one of his many roles. So long as Estinien and Venice were not serving in the same capacity, somebody had to carry the mantle of Ishgard’s staunchest protector. Moreover, he felt personally responsible for ordering the Eyes’ destruction, or at least that had been the expected outcome.

He had had cursory glances at the fertile grounds previously but nothing that fully satisfied his curiosity. The Eyes had to have reappeared after Shinryu’s defeat, they were a catalyst of aether and as such would not have been consumed themselves. And yet they were nowhere to be found. Worse than throwing them into the endless abyss which should have been the end of it, was not knowing where they currently were.

Both Eyes were reservoirs of immense power, should they be spirited away by the Garleans or any other undesirable element they could be used for evil once more. They were Ishgard’s hubris, no other nation or people should find themselves at their mercy. He continued his slow search of the tall grasses and fragrant wildflowers, losing patience with each step that he took.

A sweet-sounding melody greeted his unsuspecting ears, temporarily tearing his attention away from the unholy relics which could decide the fates of far too many. At first, the voice had a homogenous quality which he did not recognise. It was like listening to the siren call of a La Noscean songbird, mesmerising and moving. The humming turned into vocals, he knew the northern accent almost right away. Both sad and beautiful, like the woman who gave the words form.

He had not heard the words before but the notes were familiar, a slight chill fell over him as he followed the music to its source. Laying amongst the flowers was a purple-haired Highlander wearing a clean white and grey Scion uniform, the one he knew she hated wearing due to the short skirt and long stockings. In most of his time of knowing her, Venice typically favoured masculine or gender-neutral clothing. When she did don a skirt, it was often long or in some fashion classy enough to protect her modesty, leaving him to often wonder about the shape beneath.

She stopped her song as soon she lied eyes upon him but she made no effort to get up. Instead, he knelt down to her level.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he said gently.

“Tired of all the small talk already?” she asked casually.

“Something like that. I thought to take an interlude from public diplomacy to pursue a more private matter: the reclamation of the Eyes.”

“Still no luck? I wish I could be of more help.”

“It’s alright, I’m sure they’ll turn up when we least want them to,” he tried not to sound too pessimistic about the likely prospect. “What brings you away from the elated crowds?”

“Not good with large groups, withstanding, I sought solitude.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you sounded rather melancholy. Is everything alright? Are you not satisfied with your victory?”

“It’s hardly my victory alone, but no. This is a temporary respite at best, we both know this. As for my mood, I find myself thinking about all the souls who have been lost along the way.”

He got the sense that she was not referring to their recent campaign. The song’s notes played out again in his mind, they were the same as the song used to call forth Hraesvelgr in the Churning Mists. She looked away from him and sighed. He reached out to squeeze her shoulder, waiting to see if she would say more, giving her the space she needed without pressuring her further. She touched his hand with her own and squeezed back.

“Ysayle was broken, like Estinien, but in a different way. To watch her go through the shattering of her faith was the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever done. She was a sister to me, a kindred spirit, she should have been the Warrior of Light. I miss her so much,” her voice grew shaky as she tried to keep tears at bay.

“When our history is rewritten, I will ensure she is not forgotten. I only wish I could have spent more time around her,” he meant it, the way Venice described her with reverence made it clear that Ysayle had been a misunderstood woman.

“Your actions have given her what she yearned for most. You finished what she started. Always picking up the pieces left behind by everyone else.”

“I’m trying my best.”

“I’m just tired. Tired of the endless cycle of death, the losses, the setbacks, the short-lived celebrations, everything. Sometimes I contemplate retiring.”

“You are not alone, I’m still here.”

“So you are. But Ysayle and the rest deserved better. Zenos is a mere consolation prize, it’s Varis’ head that I want. My original mission was the toppling of the Garlean Empire, it seems nothing has changed. We have to go further, the war continues until there is no longer an Emperor.”

“I will aide you in the conquest. And when it is all said and done, we shall return home together where you may rest as long as it pleases you.”

She leaned over to kiss the hand which still rested against her shoulder. He took his cue, shifting his position from kneeling to laying down beside her. She pulled closer, seeking the safety and comfort that only he could provide. Large, emerald eyes were full of anticipation, longing to be reminded of what peace should feel like. The hero of the realm, still a mortal woman that needed to be cared for herself. He was more than happy to oblige, honoured that she would choose him to be the one she should reveal everything to. His long arms granted her sanctuary, her legs pushing their way between his, eager to be fully enveloped by his taller stature.

The heat of the early evening faded away when she kissed him, light little nips at first until she pressed on deliberately with her luscious lips, her chest heaving slightly against his as her breathing slowed. He tried unsuccessfully to tuck the loose strands of her hair behind her small, Hyuran ears, letting her dictate their ongoing course. She broke away after leaving a lingering nibble upon his upper lip, a sigh escaping from her as she moved to lay her head against his chest. He continued to hold her close, rubbing her shoulder gently as he allowed himself to drift off in her warm embrace.

When he opened his eyes again, the scene had shifted. While the flowers were still crimson and abundant, the chill in the air was much more accomodating, pleasant and crisp, typical of an Ishgardian afternoon. The noise of slowly flowing water denoted a fountain nearby. He was standing at one end of the Vault’s upper courtyard, in his usual attire; she was sitting against the lip of an ornate fountain wearing one of her typical Allagan-inspired outfits, fresh from one adventure or another. The sadness in her eyes was replaced with worry as she watched him pace back and forth.

“Sometimes it’s too much,” he continued, his hands clasped behind his back as he felt the need to keep moving. He was restless, unsettled, seeking clarity after being tasked with making another major decision. “I can’t be right every time and yet they all expect me to be. They’ve put me on a pedestal, Venice, at some point I will be unable to meet their lofty standards. Every move I make has to take the possibility of failure into account because nobody else will be able to compensate for my shortcomings.

Plans, decisions, contingencies, and we’re not even at war any more. I must be on the move, constantly, while other members of the House can take their time safe in the knowledge that if they get it wrong, I will make it right. Ishgard has no king but the way they all look at me, every day, you would be forgiven for thinking that isn’t true.

I have only my own previous successes to blame, this wasn’t entirely the life I hoped to have once reform began to be commonplace. I suppose I never stopped to consider where I would land when the dust was settled.”

“What can I do to help?” she enquired as if it was the obvious solution to his many dilemmas.

“You can be you, be here when it is convenient to do so. Your presence is enough. Knowing that you are well, that is one less worry on my mind. I would fight a thousand wars to see your smile. You give me something else to aspire towards.”

“Am I not disrupting your time set aside for meditation and prayer?” she waved her hand about. While it was true not many had access to that particular section of the Vault, he did not find her presence unwelcome in the slightest.

“I only pray for guidance, to know if the path I am on will advance my cause. The Fury does not answer directly, sometimes She throws more challenges at me rather than offering the knowledge I need. You are.. real, here, solid. Does that make sense?”

“You really need a break from everything. No one man should have to perform the long list of duties that you are currently ascribed to.” The concern was still readily apparent in her glance.

“You worry if I have overextended myself by being both the Lord Speaker and the Lord Commander.”

“Maybe? Only you know your limits.”

“The Inquisition wonders the same, making my job that much harder as of late. I am sure they are behind the recent unrest, in one way or another, trying to force me to choose one role or fail at both.”

“Aren’t they old news by now?”

“It’s..complicated. They should play an integral role in rooting out corruption in the church but they were given more power in the past than they should have had. It’s a delicate balance, shifting power from one side to another.”

“They failed miserably to stop Thordan from consorting with the Ascians. How can they remain relevant after all that?”

He didn’t want to argue with her, the last thing he wanted was to be at odds with the woman he admired most. He moved towards the fountain to sit beside her. She moved over, giving him room to make sure his pristine cloak would remain as such. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to do so but he needed to be as close as possible so he rested his head in her lap. She smiled down at him, one arm draped across his waist as he found the right angle for his back to rest against the narrow surface.

Her other hand hand came up to play with his hair, brushing the curls out of his face, occasionally running her fingertips along the sensitive spot behind his ears. Peace. The garden of contemplation finally felt true to its name. No more words were shared, no judgements passed. The gentle touches, the warmth of her body, the scent of the nearby rose bushes, the trickling water, it all lulled him back to sleep, his cares washed away.

The next time he opened his eyes, they were in the Vault’s decorated main hall, the room packed with jubilant citizens and knights wearing their most polished armour. It was a knighting ceremony and Venice was waiting her turn. He could feel Hrunting’s lightweight grip against his palm, not the sort of blade he’d prefer to use in battle but still a national treasure with hundreds of years of history behind it.

She knelt before him as all the other newly knighted had done, the traditional stance for the quick ritual as it had always been done. He was stricken by the sight, horrified that she would adopt the posture of subjugation for anyone, let alone for him. He tried not to watch too closely as muscle memory motioned the sword’s tip delicately across her shoulders, the recitation equally memorised and bestowed upon her.

When she rose, he broke protocol and helped her back to her feet, her gauntlets were heavy and unblemished like those of her peers. He did not immediately let go, someone took Hrunting away from his outstretched grasp to put it away for the next occasion. The room froze, all eyes upon the Lord Commander and Ishgard’s newest Temple Knight.

She watched him carefully, her eyes big and busting with emotions, joyful tears gathering at the edges. How happy she was, how proud to finally achieve the the title she actually wanted for herself, to earn it the proper way, to convert to Halone’s will. What a long and fulfilling journey it had been, as if slaying Nidhogg was not enough. The heretic, the outsider, stood as a true daughter of Ishgard, ready to defend her city to the last dying breath.

Not only that, but she had resigned herself to take his orders, swearing her loyalty not only to Halone but to her commanding officer as well. He too was beset by a wide range of emotions, it was overwhelming to conceive that she would make herself beholden to him. After everything they had been through together, perhaps her trust had grown along the way.

They had to do something, he had already broken the rules so he saw no harm in going further. He kissed her with one bold move, his free arm reaching around to hold her close. The room erupted with gasps at first until she kissed back, her own arms pulling at his shoulders. The people of Ishgard cheered on the couple when they finally tore themselves away from each other, clapping and shouting their unflinching support. He was certain he was blushing, she certainly was.

“I know how much this means to you,” he said, proud and boastful. She couldn't find her words, the wide grin said it all. “Venice, may this be the last time you kneel before me, please. I will have us standing shoulder to shoulder from now on.”

She nodded, “Thank you so much. I’ve longed to belong to something greater than myself. This is all I’ve ever wanted. I couldn’t get this far without you,” the tears streamed down her cheeks, he tried to kiss them away. “Ishgard is everything to me. You are everything to me.”

“I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you either. May the Fury continue to bless our union.”

She made to lean against him again, clumsily so in her bulky chainmail, he didn’t feel particularly motivated to dissuade her from doing so. He kissed her forehead then the scene shifted for the final time.

“You’re a good man not because you want to be seen as one but because of the choices you make,” she continued on, as if they had been conversing for quite awhile.

They were laying intertwined in his bedchamber, not a stitch of clothing covered either of their bodies. Despite the lustful temptation of being close to one’s naked beloved, they managed to engage in a robust discussion as if they were sitting across from one another at the dining table. The view he had was a bit more intoxicating than that of one of her low-cut, fancy dresses, however.

She sat atop the narrowest section of his lower torso, just above where the scar began, her knees relaxed but sturdy against his sides. He was running his fingers along her back and shoulders, designing spiralled patterns as he explored her supple skin. He had once been self-conscious about the contrast in their skintones, she was an enticing caramel while his own vanilla seemed bland in comparison. It was the difference between where each had grown up.

Their physical differences hardly stopped there, as a Highlander she had more muscle mass, more curves to wander. Additionally, he knew her to have strong upper arm strength due to all the weapons she was competent at utilising in any situation. But as he continued to rub her shoulders, he noted how much her overall form resembled a lancer’s physique, surprising given her tendency to rely on magic. Though he had spent much of his life learning the art of the sword, she could easily outmatch him in a direct contest of brute strength.

The thought was thrilling, sending a shiver down him as he considered what such a duel might look like. He wouldn’t mind testing the limits of her Garlean heritage, to see her muscles clench and writhe, sweat dripping down her taut arms as she pinned him beneath her, finding himself completely at the dragonslayer’s mercy. While she was a formidable opponent on the field of battle, she knew how not to over exert herself in the bedroom.

He wasn’t sure she where she intended to go with her comments, he wasn’t in need of an ego boost. After many of their intimate chats, he had come to realise it was best to let her work through ideas aloud that others might be more content to keep to themselves. And he did enjoy listening to the sound of her voice.

“I’ve met so many people in my travels, many some variation of good or at least decent. But rare is it to find someone as positive, as optimistic as you. You have very little reason to be so, given how you grew up, during the worst stage of the war. I can’t really figure out why you are the way you are but I must point out how much I appreciate it.”

She lowered her position so that her chest was flat against his, her elbows bent under his arms for support. He preferred her to feel entirely relaxed, her weight was never too much for him to bear. To that end, he continued to gently knead out the stress gathered beneath her weary skin.

“It’s so easy to stop caring, to become disillusioned with the world. Everybody else seems so caught up in themselves, they hurt others to make their own lives have meaning and value. There’s hardly anyone out there who is truly selfless. Even though I solve one world-destroying problem after another, if feels like the real enemy is within ourselves.”

She was in one of her philosophical moods again. There wasn’t much he could do to alleviate her concerns so he did what he usually did: tried to make her feel like the rest of the world was somewhere else while he pampered her as the illustrious treasure the she was to him. He had his own dark moments when he couldn’t make sense of others but he knew thinking like that was a rhetorical exercise without victors. Let the scholars and academics debate such quandaries while warriors like them sorted out the more immediate problems.

The small spirals turned into long, complex shapes as he worked his hands further into her sore muscles, applying more force against the back of her shoulders, drawing his thumbs along the tough shoulder blades, hard enough to elicit the occasional sigh of relief, a build up tension evaporating away like morning dew from her tightly wound flesh. He dragged the flats of his fingers slowly, methodically down her sides while his thumbs travelled down her spine, both hands arriving together at her waist where they lingered for a couple of heartbeats. Long fingers fanned out over the tantalising, concave curvature above her hips, again pausing to hold her firmly in his grip while he gazed up at her watchful eyes, trying to deduce what more she wanted from him.

She sucked on her lower lip, not ready to commit to the physical urges which he was inviting her to partake in. There was no urgency, they had been enthralled with one another without needing to let their desires become manifest. They knew the tide could shift at any moment but there was something to be said for two individuals enjoying each other’s company without having to do anything at all.

She laughed softly, pushing aside her dour thoughts, “Remember how little Alphinaud trusted you in the beginning? We had been burned so many times by others in power that he couldn’t entertain the notion that you actually meant what you said, that you weren’t trying to undermine us for personal gain. I bet he feels foolish now for how he treated you.”

“His suspicions, while unwarranted, were entirely understandable. He has good instincts and will make a fine leader himself some day, of that I am certain. Given the benefit of time and experience, he will show the world that an honest man can achieve great things.“

“He really looks up to you,” she said as if she meant to say _she_ looked up to him too, the implication both literal and figurative as she rested her chin against his chest.

“Not as much as he admires Estinien, surely,” he tried to laugh, she cut him off with a small kiss.

“I’ve prattled on long enough tonight,” she seemed genuinely apologetic, her lips only an ilm away from his own.

“We must not live our lives in fear of what others will make of us. You must take control of your own destiny.”

“You like being in control, don’t you?” Her eyes lit up, it wasn’t a question she was expecting an answer to. Under any other circumstances, he might have debated the point fervently.

“Mm.”

She extended her arms to test out her freshly loosened muscles, her rejuvenated bones gave a soft crackling noise as she flexed her deltoids. His hands were back to firmly grasping the small of her back, feeling every movement she made while repositioning. She arched and stretched her back then settled further down so that she was situated more comfortably against his lap. Before she pulled her arm away, he kissed it with a whispering touch. When she was done straightening herself out, she was sitting fully upright, relying on her arms to keep her upon him. Her large breasts swayed lazily side-to-side until they too were settled, each more than a single-hand’s width in size.

He found his mark deep within her, she let slip a sigh as he continued his upwards advance, her strong arms keeping up with the pressure of supporting her weight for a time while his smooth palms continued to press against her highly toned muscles, each caress fully in sync with his momentum. Her hips rose in time with him, like a slowly receding tide, each push inwards going further than the last.

He recited the words that he had been writing along her back, each line delivered slowly and patiently, his course ever gradual until eventually her arms gave out altogether.

“When your armour breaks, I will be your shield.

When you cannot stand, I will hold you up.

When you feel like you don’t have a voice, I will speak on your behalf.

When you laugh so hard it hurts, I will join in.

When you triumph over darkness, I will be there to help you celebrate.

When it all becomes too much, I will protect you from the world, this cruel world that we continue to fight for every day.

When you need to rest, you may lay your head upon me.

You needn’t face any of your troubles alone.

We shall rise and fall together.”

By the time he reached the bit about rest, she had collapsed in a shaking heap upon his chest, doing her best to keep up but unable to provide any further downward thrust. The waves of warmth continued to grow and engulf the pair, her panting breath begging for more and more.

\---

When he came out of his semi-lucid state, his entire body was trembling from head to foot, the water had gone cold while he dreamt of warmer places. He had fully intended to use the entirety of the soak to sort out all the issues plaguing him but his subconscious had had other ideas. Though the final sequence had left the most lingering impact, each of the dreams had depicted something of value, each showed something he wanted to do for Venice.

He would have let go of all his power, privilege, and prestige, absolutely everything he had earned so that he might give all of himself unto her, to lift her up and take away all her sadness and troubles, to revel in the same joys and pleasures. At the same time, he could appreciate why the church espoused the virtues of chastity and celibacy: to keep the mortal vessel pure, to focus the mind, to cleanse the spirit; all things he was struggling to keep in balance.

It was several long moments before he found the strength to stand again. After towelling off, he approached the solitary basin with the large looking glass. Without the fancy clothes or the gaudy jewelry, he looked like any other man. He tried to keep his dark fringe at what he deemed to be an appropriate length for a military leader but the strands curled of their own accord, the slight wave keeping his appearance a degree of unruly, the hair clinging to his cheeks in defiance of convention, just like the rest of him. But he wasn’t the same as anyone else, he was the complete opposite of what it meant to be orthodox. A herald of peace and progress, his own private feelings be damned.

_As it should be. Ishgard is your beloved. The Warrior of Light is a distraction, a temptation that will lure you to the abyss if you should let it take hold._

He knew that voice too well: the brutal inner sceptic, the ruthlessly cold logician, the calculating ruler. For a moment, he saw Thordan’s lifeless eyes staring back at him. He tried to look away but the seed of doubt had been sown. The voice, his own voice, did not relent.

_Traitor. You cannot save them both._

The war between duty and the heart waged furiously on, draining what little energy he had left. He sat alone in the lounge room, hoping a freshly lit fire and a warm beverage could soothe his soul but neither was having any effect. It was the same spot where he had cradled Venice when she had suffered from a similar crisis of faith.

He recalled rifling through a copy of the Enchiridion for inspiration, looking for the passage about grief and the merits of sacrifice, her slumbering form resting against him. Maybe that wasn’t what she needed, the Holy Word would not fix her wounds. The best he could do was offer her comfort and shelter when she needed it, that had to be enough. There was no such luxury for him.

He thought of all the tasks that lay ahead at the Congregation, he could not afford to be of two minds. A splitting headache was threatening to devour him, there was only one recourse left.

“O Halone, what must I do?” he fell to his knees and began to pray.

\---

They came without warning, that should have been the first clue that something had gone catastrophically wrong. How could every watch tower in Coerthas and the Sea of Clouds miss a soaring, mechanical fleet that could blot out the sun? The Emperor’s flagship at the fore, numerous ships of various shapes and sizes, the last remaining sight for many an usurped nation across Hydaelyn. 

They stormed the city, wrecking unfathomable destruction, toppling glistening towers with ease, devastating the anti-dragon defences systematically before disembarking to clean up what resistance remained on the ground. They knew where to go, where the hardest targets were, how to cripple the populace with the least amount of effort. The Garleans with their long-reaching gunblades, magitek machines, their casual disregard for honourable combat.

A nation of hardened warriors surpassed by superior numbers, technology, and tactics. They hadn’t stood a chance, someone had sold them out. Had to have been, the way they had approached from above, shattering the Steps of Faith so reinforcements could not enter, should the Alliance have even deemed to try and help their new ally; the dragons of Zenith were unreachable, not that they would have been keen to intervene.

Thoughts of betrayal swelled around him as he tried to find sanctuary in the rubble of the cathedral, hoping to find a living soul within the war-torn remains, colourful-stained glass shattered into a million pieces amongst the crumbling stone, the statue of Halone cleaved in two, Her eyes full of sadness. There was no one left. He had seen the bodies of all his former allies, the only two he could not account for were Lucia and Venice.

“If you wish to join the rest, I would be happy to grant you what you desire,” a cool, menacing voice called out to him. He expected it to be Emperor Varis zos Galvus but when he lifted his head, he saw Zenos yae Galvus instead, a beaming smile across his feminine features, a strange curved blade held out at his side, so narrow that it barely looked capable of slicing through a piece of parchment. His armour was disgusting and bulky, meant to intimidate his foes, the blade was his preferred katana, the weapon of an Eastern samurai.

He had no desire to listen to the monster gloat further so he grabbed his proper blade, that which a knight should hold dear, with both hands he gripped it with all his strength. His tattered cloak of blue and gold swirled around him as he began his charge, holding the blade in an overhead thrust, as Estinien might have done with his lance. To test the staggering brutality of a knight against the swift dexterity of a samurai, the ultimate contest of glory.

For revenge, for Ishgard, for all those who had been lost and could not be saved.

\---

Dreams of failure were not uncommon for one in his position. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and willed the mental fatigue away, there was too much do do to dwell on such nonsense.  Another day had come, another day of self-sacrifice to push through like any other. That was as good as it was going to get. Whether it was fair or not, the tasks fell to him and he would see them done.

They said it was lonely at the top but that was only a half-truth. He knew better than most that it was lonely at the bottom too.

A soft knock on the bedroom door kept the negative thoughts from taking root, “My lord, you have a visitor. They await you in the lounge room.”

“Thank you.”

_Please, by the grace of the Fury, let it be Venice.._

The man standing nonchalantly by the fireplace was the same height as the Warrior of Light but in place of her luscious plum locks, his hair was white as snow, unkept and hiding much of his face. The armour had changed but the lance he carried had not, it still bore all the disgusting remnants of Nidhogg.

“Estinien,” he said with a mix of awe and anger, the last of which caught him slightly by surprise. Shouldn’t he have been glad to see his old friend in one piece again? Had he not abandoned him when he needed him most?

“We need to talk,” the other Elezen said without preamble, without regard for his feelings, his icy eyes as unreadable as ever.


End file.
